


Four Times Peter and Neal Almost Said “I Love You” Before They Finally Did

by rabidchild67



Series: Fits and Starts [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Break Up, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Makeup, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is says on the tin. </p><p>FOR CAFFREY-BURKE DAY!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Peter and Neal Almost Said “I Love You” Before They Finally Did

**Number One**

Neal wasn’t sure when he fell for Peter, but he would always remember the exact moment he realized he had.

They were sitting in Central Park on an extended lunch hour. It was an unusually warm day for mid-October – Indian Summer Ellen used to call it when he was a kid – and Peter had grabbed them each an ice cream cone from a cart nearby. They were sitting on one of the big boulders, Neal slightly above Peter’s shoulder, looking down at him and laughing about something inconsequential. 

There was something about how the dappled sunlight that shone through the autumn leaves above them fell across Peter’s face – the oblique angle of the light making it seem as if he glowed. His eyelashes and brows were almost golden, the irises of his eyes suddenly a hundred different shades of hazel and green and gold. It literally took Neal's breath away, and he sat there, staring, with his lips slightly parted and his heart filling up.

“What?” Peter asked, rubbing his nose self-consciously in case some ice cream had somehow landed there. When he did, he straightened his back, changing his angle to the sun, and the light was no longer playing its tricks. 

Neal blinked. “Nothing – I – really like this flavor,” he said lamely and looked down at his hands. _Yay, pistachio._

When he told Peter he loved him, it was going to be in a more meaningful place than Central Park with ice cream dripping down his hand.

 

**Number Two**

“I love when you sing, even when you don’t know the words.”

“I love these lamb chops, babe, they’re delicious.”

“God, I love those jeans and what they do for your ass.”

Peter loves many things about Neal. He even loves Neal, but he hasn’t been able to tell him.

He’s afraid of what will happen if he does. He’s afraid Neal doesn’t feel the same way, that this is just a fun lark for him. He’s afraid he’ll scare Neal away, which is what Peter thinks happened between Neal and Sara (he’s never really gotten around to asking). 

Like tonight, he watches as Neal dances around the kitchenette of his apartment, barefoot and in jeans and a sweater, the Nat King Cole Trio on the stereo, and, well, what’s not to love? He’s so light and free (anklet notwithstanding) and young and beautiful. Peter comes up behind him and takes his hand, and Neal swings his hips around, as if that was part of the choreography in his head, and throws his hand around Peter’s back and moves him around the room, singing and smiling.

_Won't you get hip to this timely tip:_  
When you make that California trip  
Get your kicks on Route Sixty-six. 

And now there’s the piano solo, and Neal dances away, shaking his hips, eyes closed and smiling. He does a half turn and Peter catches him by the arm, takes him into his arms and kisses him until he laughs. Peter pulls away, and Neal's blue eyes dance and shine. “I could fall for you,” Peter confesses, voice suddenly hoarse.

The smile on Neal's face fades some, and Peter’s not sure if it’s now tinged with sadness or wariness – he can never tell. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Peter,” he says lightly.

“Why not?”

“Because I might believe you.”

And Peter thinks that if ever there was a right time to tell Neal what he’s been yearning to say for weeks it’s right now, because despite the playfulness in Neal's tone, there’s a fragility around his eyes that makes Peter think he wants to hear it.

But he doesn’t say it, not now. Because of all the things he’s afraid of if he tells Neal his feelings, one thing he doesn’t think he can live with. 

He’s afraid it means he has to love his wife that much less. 

 

**Number Three**

“Okaaaay, Drunky, one step in front of the other, now. Ready? One… two… one…” Neal practically had to frog-march Peter up the steps at June’s, but they finally made it safely to his door, though he wasn’t sure if his back would agree. “Herrre we arrrrre,” he sang, fishing the keys out of his jacket pocket. Peter leaned heavily against him, nuzzling Neal's neck with his mouth, lips sucking lazily.

“Hey now, none of that.”

Peter pulled back and swayed on his feet, blinking owlishly at him. “Why not? I’m rrrrrarin’ to go here. I’m one hot commodity.”

Neal sighed and unlocked the door, maneuvered Peter through it and then kicked it closed with his foot. 

“Yer too mush a gennleman,” Peter slurred, coming to a stop.

 _You’ve got that right,_ Neal thought. “Thank you, I think.”

“I’m not,” Peter said and grabbed at Neal's tie, an attempt at a sexy expression on his face that looked more like a lopsided grin.

“Actually, you are,” Neal said, taking his arm and pulling him towards the couch.

“I am,” Peter agreed and sank gratefully into the cushions. He sighed mightily. “What happened?”

“What?”

“Why’m I here?”

“Because you got wasted with Captain Shattuck at the _Beggar’s Purse_ and there’s no frigging way you were driving home to Brooklyn.”

“Oh.” He breathed in and out carefully for a beat. “Why’m I here?”

“Because we lost the Pederson case and you thought ducking out of the office early and consuming your body weight in Jameson’s was a good idea. It took me three hours to find you.” 

The case, a long-running investigation, was tossed out when a preliminary hearing came down very unfavorably for the prosecution. The judge had been particularly harsh on the FBI, falling just short of accusing them of incompetence. Peter had been furious with the AUSA who’d tanked the case, but there was little he could have done. Except, apparently, get shit-faced.

“Why’m I _here?_ ”

 _Because I wouldn’t leave you alone on a night like this for anything,_ Neal didn’t say. “Because El’s out of town. Here, take this.” Neal handed him two Tylenol and the large glass of water he’d fetched from the kitchen, then loosened his own tie.

“Oh. Oh yeah.”

Neal made him drink the entire glass of water, then returned to the kitchen and refilled it. When he returned, he placed the glass on the end table and then took a seat on the coffee table in front of Peter. He reached down and began to untie Peter’s shoes, easing them off his feet. Then he stood and made him get his jacket off, followed by his belt and his tie. 

“You take care of me. You take care of me as good as El,” Peter said, looking up at Neal with his mouth slightly open. Neal eased his shoulders down on the couch and grabbed the throw from the back of the couch and tucked it around him.

“Well, we both find you irresistible.” _We both love you,_ Neal didn’t say, again.

Peter positioned himself more comfortably on the couch, and Neal couldn’t resist ruffling his hair as he snuggled his face into the pillow and sighed. “Love you,” Peter muttered, and then let out a snore and Neal stared up at the ceiling. 

“How come you can only say it when you’re drunk?” Neal whispered and walked slowly to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

 

**Number Four**

Peter woke with one of the worst headaches of his life, shivering from a sudden chill. Pushing himself off the couch into a seated position, he saw why – the balcony doors were wide open. He found Neal sitting at the table out there, a full cup of coffee sitting untouched at his elbow. He seemed to be reading the morning paper, but his eyes weren’t moving.

“Hey,” Peter began, padding over and pouring himself a cup. He leaned over to kiss Neal, who turned his face to the side so that Peter’s lips landed on his cheekbone. 

“Morning,” he said, all fake-chipper and Peter knew immediately…

“Something is wrong.” It wasn’t a question.

Neal's eyes when they looked at his were clouded, pained, but Peter couldn’t say by what – fear, uncertainty? He looked tired, too; Peter wondered if he’d slept at all. “What are we doing here, Peter?”

“Having breakfast.” An obvious misdirect, and one he knew wouldn’t fly, but Peter had to at least go for it; he picked up a muffin he was suddenly no longer hungry for. The look in Neal's eyes got cloudier. “I don’t know what you –“

“I want to know what we are to each other. Friends with benefits? Lovers? What?” 

Peter felt too hot suddenly, and afraid. “I don’t know.” _Can’t we be our own thing?_ he thought. “What do you want?”

“I want your love, Peter,” he said so quietly Peter wasn’t sure he’d heard him.

“I want to give it to you.” 

“But you won’t?”

 _I can’t,_ Peter was going to say, but the words stuck in his throat. He closed his eyes.

“So where does this put us?” Neal said.

“Does it have to put us anywhere?”

“I’m afraid it does. Maybe we should just break it off, quit while we’re ahead.”

“No!” Peter answered, quick and vehement.

“Well then, what?”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“I don’t know if I can go on like this. Maybe we should take a break or something.”

Neal’s words felt like an ending, and Peter could do nothing to stop it. Well, he could. He could tell Neal he loved him, even though he feared what that meant for himself and his marriage. He could dissemble and give Neal what he needed – he’d certainly mean it if he said it, it was true after all – but the consequences were ones he wasn’t sure he wanted to live with. It wasn’t fair to his wife, and it wasn’t fair to Neal. 

His hands were tied. 

“Or something,” Peter said sadly, and went to find his shoes.

 

**Finally**

Peter rushed through the doors of the emergency room and looked around, surprised at the orderly calm inside, the brightness and airiness. It was in direct contrast to his mood.

He strode over to the information desk and flashed his badge. “I’m looking for a, uh, patient. Neal Caffrey – they said they brought him in an ambulance?”

The nurse typed a few things in her computer as she spoke. “You’re family?” she asked.

“He’s my partner,” Peter said intensely, “at the FBI.”

“Yes, Agent…?”

“Burke.” He handed over his badge so she could look at it, even if she didn’t ask for it; if it was going to get him in to see Neal, he didn’t really care.

It was supposed to be nothing – a simple information-gathering operation. In fact, it was so not a thing that Peter hadn’t even been in the van – he’d been giving a lecture on digital forensics to a criminology class at a university uptown. It was supposed to be easy, routine. It was just Neal with Clinton and Diana in the van – quick pressing of flesh, planting of bugs, and Neal was supposed to get out of there. But Peter had gotten the call as he was taking Q&A at the end of his class, that shots had been fired and Neal had been hit. With afternoon traffic, it’d taken him nearly an hour to get to the hospital, and he was nearly frantic with worry.

“All righty,” the nurse said with a smile. She handed Peter his badge back and a bright yellow sticker that said, “PATIENT FAMILY” and continued, “Mr. Caffrey is in Treatment Room 3 – just follow the hall straight back and take the third left.” She hit a button under her desk and the security door buzzed until Peter pulled it open. He muttered a distracted thanks and walked as fast as he could.

He took the first left and passed an ambulance bay, looked up and saw a lit-up number 3 over a door at the end. Not knowing what he would find, he slowed his pace, trying to gather his composure before facing whatever it was that awaited him in that room.

The two weeks since he and Neal had decided to “take a break” in their relationship had felt more like a break-up each day. They’d always been close, had always had an uncanny way of finishing each other’s thoughts, and since they’d begun dating, it was as if those aspects of their relationship had been magnified. But now, things were awkward and strange, each of them being unerringly polite and solicitous of the other, respecting each other’s opinions and deferring to each other’s judgment so often, Peter wanted to puke, it was so damn civil. He missed Neal like hell. 

He noticed a pair of medical personnel wheeling a bit of hospital equipment out of Room 3; in fact, he noticed a lot of people leaving Room 3. “What – what happened?” he asked one of them, a doctor, he guessed, taking in the lab coat and stethoscope.

The doctor glanced down and caught sight of Peter’s badge clipped to his belt and nodded tersely. “Sorry, we lost him. You can talk to the nurse.” He slapped Peter on the upper arm and strode down the hall.

 _Sorry, we lost him._ The words were still floating around in the air and Peter felt like his life was over. He stumbled over to the window of Room 3, rested his hand on the glass. Inside, a nurse stood beside a body writing something on a clipboard. The body was covered by a sheet, thank God – Peter didn’t know if he could see Neal dead, not yet, because what he could see was bad enough: a shock of dark hair, a bloody puddle a floor littered with discarded vials, wrappings, and other detritus of life-saving.

He wanted to vomit. He wanted to scream. He may have whimpered, “No.”

“Sir?” the nurse, who had noticed him standing there, took a step forward. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She was right – he needed to go. He couldn’t face this, not now. Not yet. Spinning on his heel, he rushed back down the hallway. When he reached the end he couldn’t remember which way he’d come. The corridor stretched on in both directions, seemingly endlessly. He turned left, walked the long hallway; all the while his vision was tunneling, and he felt a pressure inside his chest like it was going to explode. He turned down another hallway – where the hell was the exit? He needed to get out of there, the walls were closing in, he needed – 

“Peter?”

The sound of his name being called brought him up short.

“Peter!”

The voice had come from inside one of the curtained treatment rooms. He retraced his steps and looked inside, feeling all the blood drain from his face.

Neal sat on a gurney inside, his shirt stripped off and a bandage adorning his upper left arm. He was looking at Peter with his head tilted, a puzzled look on his face. “Nuh,” was all Peter could say.

“If you’re looking for Diana, I don’t know where she’s gotten to.”

“Neal?”

“What’s wrong, buddy, you look like hell,” Neal said, concern written all over his face.

The sudden relief that washed over Peter at seeing Neal was almost overwhelming. With a strangled, broken noise he would deny uttering later, he stumbled over to Neal and took him into his arms. Pressing his face into Neal's neck, he closed his eyes as the hot tears fell, his left hand coming up to cradle the back of Neal's head.

He squeezed Neal harder, knowing he was crushing him, bruising him, and he didn’t care. 

“Ow?” Neal said, though his right arm was still slung around Peter’s back.

“I thought that was you in there.” 

“What?”

“I thought you were dead. They told me – I mean, they showed me – “ The trauma Peter had just experienced was still confusing him, but he was piecing it together. He had simply gone to the wrong room. He eased his grip on Neal and took a step back, but he held onto his hand. “I got a call you’d been shot, and wound up going to the wrong room, I guess. There was a man there – he looked like – I mean, I thought he was you. He was dead, and I thought it was you.” Now he was saying it, it sounded stupid, and Peter had to look away, embarrassed.

“God, Peter, that’s horrible. I’m sorry.”

Peter looked at Neal then, saw the worry in his eyes and in that moment, he realized how much he loved him. He realized how right the feeling of Neal in his arms was – how right _being in his arms_ was. His warmth, his presence, his scent – he’d missed them all. And suddenly all his fears about loving him, the idea that his love for his wife could be diminished by his love for Neal, seemed ludicrous when faced with the prospect of a life without Neal. Leaning into him, he took Neal's face in his hands and kissed him.

When they parted, Peter looked down into Neal's face, caressed the familiar cheekbones and eyebrows with his thumbs and smiled. “I love you,” he finally said.

“What?”

“I love you, Neal! I love you so much, and I’ve been so afraid to say it because I was scared of what it meant.” 

“Why? What were you afraid of?” 

“I didn’t think I could love you both.” 

“Me and El?” Neal blinked and looked hurt. “Oh.” While the Burke marriage was an open one, Elizabeth was still very much a part of this relationship, and Neal had never questioned it, nor sought to replace her in any way. Peter had always been grateful for that acceptance for the way things were, but he didn’t want Neal to think it meant things had to end now. 

“Now I see how wrong I was. Neal, I can’t think of my life without you in it. Please tell me you feel the same, please, because it’s breaking my heart to think you don’t.” 

“Of course I do, Peter, I always have.” 

Neal’s last phrase was deeply muffled by Peter’s mouth on his, kissing him until they were both breathless.

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
